


Dream Of The Soft Look

by Sir_Bedevere



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Although also not too much angst, Although not a huge amount of fluff, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 16:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5505533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sir_Bedevere/pseuds/Sir_Bedevere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Stannis had a shadow, the smuggler Davos Seaworth, proof that it was possible to inspire the man to some kind of mercy, some humanity, even if no one could remember any other time Stannis had done such a thing as adopt someone like Seaworth as his liegeman.' </p>
<p>Four times Beric and Thoros discovered something secret, and one time they talked about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream Of The Soft Look

**Author's Note:**

> A birthday gift for Vana, who doesn't mind my complaining and who doesn't mind waiting 179 years for her present.

_i._

He had not been to King’s Landing since he was a boy, and the thing that struck Beric beyond all else was that kings may come and go, but the stink would last forever. He had cried when he was young, brought to court by his father, and missing the fresh, sweet air of home, convinced that they would all die of poison if they remained there any longer. They had not, of course; the smell was not the thing that killed people in the capital.

The Red Keep was full to bursting with lords and ladies, all turned out to bend the knee to the new king, Robert Baratheon. The Usurper, his more vocal critics called him, not that any would dare do so to his face. Beric had been summoned, it seemed, along with every noble in Westeros. He did not quite know why – House Dondarrion had been sworn to House Baratheon for as long as they had existed, since the first days of the Storm Kings and the fearsome men that they were. Beric was hardly likely to turn from such an alliance now. Yet here he was, expected to make a show nonetheless, and if his king demanded such a mummer’s farce then who was he to argue?

The ceremony would take place on the morrow, on the first of the month. Beric had been accorded a place to stay in the Keep itself, perhaps because of his Stormland roots, and for much of his day of arrival he kept to his chamber. He hated the city and wished only to play his part and leave for the long journey home. He took a book quietly from the library and read it, content in his own company. He had not even brought his squire, so determined was he to be gone before the second day had finished.

Finally, in the evening, when hunger took a firm hold of him, Beric dressed himself properly and ventured to the hall for his share of the dinner that had been laid out for the guests to help themselves. No expense, courtesy no doubt of Tywin Lannister, had been spared, and Beric filled his plate with roasted swan, boiled eggs and mountains of buttered beans. In a quiet corner, he sat down to eat. 

The room was raucous, some of the lordlings well into their cups, and Beric kept his head down until a sudden hush came over the room. He looked up, expecting the king, and instead saw a man around his own age taking to the top table, followed by another a good few years older, dressed much less splendidly and sporting a beard. The younger man, his face set into a scowl, took his seat and only then seemed to become aware of his audience. He nodded slightly and, slowly, the chatter picked up again. 

“Who is that?” Beric asked the man beside him, a heavy set bear of a man, who wore the colours and sigil of faraway House Mormont. Beric supposed he should know the man’s name, but he was damned if he could remember it.

“Stannis Baratheon. Heir to the kingdom. And some say the man who truly won the throne for his brother.”

Stannis. Beric knew of him, of course, but he had never seen him before. The man’s courage and valour were well known now, how he held Storm’s End for over a year whilst the loyalists did their best to starve him out. A boy really, barely twenty, who held out against the full force of the assault and just waited, waited for his brother to come home. The man was already a legend.

“And who is that with him?”

“Why, that would be Ser Davos Seaworth,” Mormont said, screwing up his nose a little, “I’ll wager you’ve never heard of him!”

“I have not.”

“Why, he is the smuggler. The smuggler who saved Storm’s End with a boatload of cod and onions.”

“Why is he here?”

“Seems young Stannis will not be without him. I have been here nigh on a week and I have not seen them apart yet.” 

Beric watched as Stannis ate sparsely, far too sparsely for a man of his thin frame, and saw how Seaworth seemed to keep away anyone who dared to presume on a moment of the prince’s time. A gentle look here, a small shake of the head there, and Stannis was left unmolested. 

Beric stayed, long beyond the end of his meal, to observe the pair.

_ii._

Stannis Baratheon watched him, and Thoros watched him right back. 

Robert had been the easy one to befriend, after all the effort the red priests had put into training him for his task. The king was a simple man, fond of whoring, food and fighting, and quick to like the company of any man who shared those interests.   
Thoros had been given a room in the Red Keep, small, but more space to himself than he had ever had before. He was summoned to while away his afternoons with the king and his inner circle, riding out on the hunt or drinking through the Targaryen wine cellar left behind. 

When Robert went to crush the rebellion on the Iron Islands, Thoros went too and earned his favoured position with a daring he did not   
know he possessed. 

And still Stannis watched him.

He did not smile when Thoros took out his magic tricks, only kept to the edges of the room and scowled, his blue eyes so piercing that Thoros knew he must know Thoros was a liar, a betrayer of his own truths and the truths with which he had been raised. 

The man was immoveable as stone, less forgiving than the storms of his homeland, more stubborn than the waves that battered the walls of the city with the coming of the tides. Even after the Greyjoy Rebellion, he gave not an inch. He knew what Thoros was.

Stannis had a shadow, the smuggler Davos Seaworth, proof that it was possible to inspire the man to some kind of mercy, some humanity, even if no one could remember any other time Stannis had done such a thing as adopt someone like Seaworth as his liegeman. The smuggler seemed a decent enough man, quiet in his way, but more inclined to appear at table in the evening for a drink or two. He smiled at Thoros, sometimes. Perhaps he recognised a kindred spirit, another who didn’t belong in this world. It was unfair, Thoros thought, that someone as good as Seaworth would be secretly mocked far more than Thoros himself was.

One evening, when the king had taken himself to bed, Thoros wandered the corridors of the keep, hidden in the shadows. The day had been a hot one, and the night was worse, for now the heat had turned oppressive and thick as a blanket on the lungs. Nights such as this reminded Thoros of home, of the fires that never stopped burning and the vigils at their side. He did not like to think of home. Not when he had come so far to escape.

At the end of the corridor, near to the library, Thoros heard a sound in the breathless silence. A groan, and then a murmur, so low it could have been a thousand miles away. At the corner he stopped and peered around, rooted to his spot with surprise.

Stannis was there, pushed against the wall and half cast in shadow himself. He was pinned there by Seaworth, who had his hands in the prince’s hair and his mouth pressed to his mouth. Stannis’ eyes were closed, so tight he could have been in pain had his hands not clung to Seaworth for dear life, his knuckles white with effort. Thoros did not know which of them had groaned; it could, in truth, have been either.

As quickly as he dared, Thoros turned and fled, back towards the great staircase and down to his room. He did not stop until he was in his chamber, his back fast against the door. He had seen all things in brothels of course; two men was no unusual thing. But Stannis! The man who it was rumoured went once a year to his wife’s bed, unwilling but dutiful. Then again, perhaps it made sense after all, if his wife did not interest him. Plenty of men lived a similar lie.

Thoros smiled and went to his bed, shedding his robe on the way. Stannis may still watch him, may still presume to know him, but now, Thoros knew him too. He could have asked for no greater gift.

Knowledge was all there was, the only power, the only true currency and, now, he was a very rich man indeed.

_iii._

Beric did not like boats. He never had done.

Blackhaven was too far from the sea for young Dondarrions to have spent any time on the water, really almost more of the deserts of Dorne than the moody Stormlands. Beric would ride a horse until he was stiff and sore and willingly get back onto the beast the next day. If he had no horse, he would walk until his boots wore through and his feet bled, rather than get on a ship. 

Sometimes though, it could not be avoided, particularly when ordered by the king. Beric’s visits to the capital had become more frequent now that Robert sat the throne. They were petty things really, these visits, but he did not have a choice, and now he was on a ship bound for Gulltown of all places. Robert was sending an envoy to inspect three new ships in the harbour, freshly built to replace the ones lost off the coast of the Iron Islands. Somehow Beric, with no knowledge of such things, had been included in Stannis Baratheon’s party. If Stannis knew that Beric was worse than useless, he had not said a word when he came aboard. 

Two days into the journey and Blackwater Bay had opened into the Narrow Sea, where the winds blew across from Essos and whipped the water into a never ending frenzy of high waves that hit the hull so hard Beric feared the wood would smash with every rise and fall. He had kept to his cabin on that first day but now fear drove him out and onto the deck, sense telling him that the last place he would want to be in a shipwreck was stuck below.

Some of the party was above, men who had far more experience than he. Aside from Stannis and himself, there was Davos Seaworth, Ser Jon Fossoway and Ser Desmond Redwyne, all of whom had served Stannis in the rebellion and who Beric took comfort from now, because they did not look afraid. Fossoway and Redwyne were at the wheel, talking with the helmsman. Beric noticed that whilst he was clutching the railings nearest to him, they stood as though on ground that was solid beneath their feet. Fossoway glanced his way and, although Beric did not see for sure, he was certain that he had smirked as he looked away.

Forcing himself to release his grip a little, Beric worked his way around the edge of the ship, his stomach rolling and head pounding. Members of the crew, surefooted and busy, hurried past him, but they at least did not laugh. 

“Come and stand here, my lord,” a voice said, “And keep looking to the horizon.”

Beric turned to find Ser Davos watching him, and took a moment to realise that it was he who had spoken. Seaworth was by the railings in the very middle of the ship, out of sight of the others, and Beric went to him gladly. His eyes sought the horizon as Seaworth had said, and he did feel a little of the pressure on his head and stomach ease. 

“It takes some getting used to, the open water. I do not envy you this as your first journey.”

“Not my first,” Beric murmured, “But it may as well be for all the good the others have done me.”

“The sea is not for everyone, my lord,” Ser Davos said kindly.

“No, it is not,” said another voice from behind them. Beric stiffened, because here was Stannis Baratheon to see the quality of the man who he had in his company. Stannis came to stand at the rail, putting Seaworth between them, and studiously avoiding Beric’s eye.

“You have no experience with sailing, Lord Dondarrion.”

“I do not, my lord. I do not fully understand why the king sent me along.”

“Who knows why my brother does anything,” Stannis scoffed, and Beric dared to turn his head and look at him, “Your presence is a waste of your time. For that, you have my apologies.”

They stood in silence for a while, the three of them side by side, and Beric wondered if he was supposed to talk now, to answer, to keep the conversation going. It was too bad, for he did not know how best to continue without either insulting the king or offending Stannis. It fell to Seaworth to rescue them all.

“It will only be two more days to Gulltown, my lord,” he said, sweeping his hand towards the horizon, “And we will stick to the coast for most of it. Seven willing, it will not get any worse than this, not this close to the land.”

“That is good news, Ser Davos. Thank you.”

Soon after, Beric dared to venture down to the galley in search of some bread, the first thing he would have eaten since they left King’s Landing. It was only as he went back up to the deck with his lunch in hand that he realised what he had seen. When Stannis had ground the apology between his teeth, Ser Davos slid his hand along the rail and hooked his smallest finger around Stannis’, who had tightened his   
hand in response.

Beric took a bite and chewed it carefully, pleased that the food did not immediately make his nausea worse. 

He thought about those hands for the rest of the journey. If either Stannis or Seaworth knew he had seen a thing, they did not make it plain.

 

_iv._

Jon Arryn was dead.

He had been a likeable enough man, dedicated to his king and his role as Hand in equal measure. Robert had loved him, that much was obvious, the father who had all but raised him to manhood after Lord Baratheon had died. The keep had been quiet ever since the death, first in mourning for the old man, and then because Robert had gone north and taken his retinue with him. Rumour was he sought his old friend and foster brother, Eddard Stark, to come and replace Arryn at his side. Thoros already knew that the man would agree; Robert had a very persuasive nature when he wished it.

The Small Council, lacking only Barristan Selmy who had accompanied the king, were left in charge of King’s Landing. Supposedly, Lord Stannis and Lord Renly had command between them, what with the lack of the king and a Hand, although it was only ever Stannis whom Thoros had seen doing anything that passed for work since Robert had left. That was no real surprise of course; he knew the Baratheon brothers well enough by now to see the patterns.

Thoros did his best to stay out of the way, for the most part. With most of the court gone, he had little to do and even less to talk about with the others who had remained behind. He took to walking the city, mostly to keep himself from going mad, but also to get out of the way of whatever intrigue was occupying the castle that day. In truth, he did not dare to make himself known for fear of Lord Stannis ordering him away. 

It was only at night, when he could be sure Lord Stannis would be in his study, that Thoros dared to make an appearance at dinner. On this evening, he had helped himself to the platters that had been laid out, no less lavish in the king’s absence, and put himself in a corner to eat alone. His plate was empty, and he was on his third cup of wine when someone coughed and shuffled their feet near to his table.

It was Davos Seaworth, a cup in each hand and a flush to his face that told Thoros he was not alone in having indulged in the wine.

“May I join you?”

They were not the first words that Seaworth had ever spoken to him in these twelve long years, but not far from it. In truth, Thoros had done his best to avoid him, although he had not thought on that night for a long time now, the night when he caught Lord Stannis and his man in the corridor. He had never had a reason to use what he knew against the pair of them and, in truth, he had seen nothing since then to even suggest that what he had seen hadn’t been a singular thing, a heat of the moment reaction to the addling heat of that endless summer. 

“Please,” Thoros said, “Plenty of space, Ser.”

Seaworth sat down heavily and slid one of the cups towards Thoros, before drinking deeply from his own. 

“Call me Davos.”

“I am Thoros of Myr.”

“Aye, I know who you are,” Davos smiled, “Not important enough to be invited along for a little trip to Winterfell, despite twelve years loyal service.”

“It does not worry me,” Thoros shrugged, “The last place I want to be is in some godforsaken inn on the Kingsroad. I have heard more than enough about the Riverlands without having to go there to see for myself.”

Seaworth chuckled, a full-bodied and surprising chuckle, and nodded. 

“I went to Riverrun once, with Lord Stannis. It was five, maybe six summers ago. Fresher air than this place, but an odd sort of folk. More at home in the water, I believe, than a man has any right to be.”

“I’d have thought you would fit right in, Ser Davos. A man of the sea such as yourself.”

The smile left Seaworth’s face then and he grew serious.

“Better to let the water take you, if your time has come. I’ve seen too many men struggling against it, fighting for a life they don’t understand they’ve already lost. They all go under in the end. There’s no saving them in a battle and sometimes not in a storm. If it’s me, Seven forbid it, I’ll be taking a breath and letting go.”

Thoros was not sure he was expected to answer and so he didn’t, instead taking up their empty cups and going to refill them. When he returned, Seaworth thanked him readily enough and the sombre shadows on his face had melted away once more.

“This is more wine than I usually let myself have. My lord does not approve of drunkenness.”

“Well, he is not here,” Thoros grinned, toasting the air, “And what he will not lose sleep over what he doesn’t know.”

“Aye, aye,” Davos said, drumming his fingers against the table and ignoring his cup for the moment, “I do not choose to spend my time   
here. Not usually.”

Perhaps he does know, Thoros thought. He does know what the men say about him, the lords and the other knights and anyone else who thought to have an opinion on other people’s business. Thoros supposed it would be difficult to frequent somewhere as often as Seaworth did the Red Keep and not know what the other inhabitants thought of you. They did not often try to make a secret of it.

“They are quick to judge,” Thoros found himself offering, “And slow to admit they are wrong.”

“Aye,” Davos looked up quickly, his eyes searching Thoros’ face; what he was looking for, Thoros did not know, but he did not seem to find it, for he went back to examining the wood of the table.

“I am lucky,” Seaworth said, finally taking another draught from his cup, “My lord does not care for such things either. I am not forced into anything, because he hates to be forced himself.”

“He is kind to you,” Thoros said, “When kindness seems to be difficult for him.”

“Not kind,” Davos said vaguely, “Fair. He is the fairest man you will ever meet. He does not scorn you, if you have given him no reason for scorn. And you can earn his respect, if you wish to try.”

“Still,” Thoros said, watching as Seaworth’s face flushed blood red, the latest wine perhaps a cup too far, “You must be the first to agree that he does not like every man that he meets.”

He was probing, more than he would have dared if Seaworth had not been as drunk as he was now. He should stop. He had no right to know. No right to ask.

“Maybe not,” Davos agreed, his eyes bright behind drooping eyelids, “But he tries. He tries more than you might think. And he is loving, in his way. It isn’t something that he doesn’t know. He loves so much it hurts him.”

Seaworth was far away now, too far gone for Thoros to feel anything other than an arse in questioning him. So, instead, he slung Seaworth’s arm around his shoulders and delivered him to his chamber, dropping him on the bed and pulling off his boots. As he turned to leave, Davos suddenly sat bolt upright and grabbed his arm.

“You have secrets, Thoros of Myr. Secrets of your own. Will you keep ours?”

“I’ll never breathe it to another soul, Ser Davos. You have my word.”

_\+ i._

Beric slept rarely now. He simply did not seem to need it, not in the way he used to. Hour after hour, night after night, he took the watch so that his men did not have to. Sometimes, when the Brotherhood would be riding onwards, Thoros would catch him dozing in his saddle, but those moments were rare, and he was always ready to take another night long watch that same day. 

Beric did not sleep and so neither did Thoros, as much as he could bear. A few hours, snatched here and there, was all he needed. The Red God that gave Beric life now sustained Thoros just as well. In truth, he did not dare take his eyes off the man.

On this night, the rest of the Brotherhood were huddled in sleep at the back of the cave, passed out from too much wine. Beric had propped himself near to the fire in the mouth of the cave, his arm wrapped around little Ned Dayne, who had taken to coiling himself around Beric to sleep. He was just as afraid as Thoros was that Beric’s borrowed time would soon run out. Thoros could not bring himself to be jealous of the youngster and the closeness that he enjoyed with his lord; in many ways, he and Ned were allies dedicated to the cause and, besides, he and Beric stole whatever time they could.

Like now, despite the rest of the men being near. Beric leaned against Thoros’ legs and laid his head back, good eye closed as Thoros threaded his fingers through that coppery hair. They were silent, had been for a long time, until Beric shivered and opened his eye.

“Build the fire, Thoros,” he rasped, “As hot as you can bear.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. I would, but the boy-”

“No need to explain,” Thoros stroked the back of his hand over Beric’s cheek, and stood up, “Anything you ask.”

He could feel Beric’s eyes on him as he tossed logs into the fire pit, until the flames flared up and he felt sweat begin to prickle on his brow. He added a few more, because Beric was always so cold now, and then retreated back to his perch.

“And now you are too hot,” Beric said, “You are so very good to me, Thoros.”

“It is no less than you deserve.”

Ned snuffled and shifted a little, his fingers tightening on Beric’s shirtsleeve. With his spare hand, Beric stroked the boy’s hair until he settled again.

“Between you and Ned here, I can be in no doubt of that.”

Silence fell once more, broken only by the crackle of the new logs in the flames. Thoros slipped down from his rock and pressed himself to Beric’s other side, legs flush together and hands brushing. He could not quite believe, sometimes, that this was his.

“I did not think I would ever have a child so close I could call him my own son,” Beric turned his head suddenly and fixed his good eye on Thoros, “And – and I did not think I would ever have what – what we two share. You and I.”

“Do you regret it?”

“Not at all. I remember, I think, many years ago. I was on a ship, although I do not know why. The king’s brother – the second son – what was his name, Thoros?”

“Stannis.”

“Yes. Stannis and his man. The smuggler.”

“Davos Seaworth.”

“Seaworth. I saw them, hands touching like our hands are now and I did not know what to think of it. I hope I did not judge them too harshly. I think I understand now.”

Thoros laughed and tightened his hold on Beric’s hand. 

“I saw them once, in the Red Keep,” Thoros said slowly, voice low, “Davos had Stannis pinned to the wall. I did not know where to look.”

He raised Beric’s hand to his lips and kissed the palm, lips soft against the sword callouses that he found there. Despite his constant chill, he felt Beric’s hand warming beneath his mouth and kept his lips there, until Beric gently pushed him away.

“I am glad. If Stannis loves his man as I love mine, perhaps it means he is not as lonely as he seemed.”

Beric flushed and buried his face into Thoros’ neck, a slow smile on his face that Thoros could feel spreading against his skin when he pressed his mouth to Beric’s ear and whispered,

“Davos Seaworth worships his lord. As I worship mine.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'When You Are Old' by WB Yeats


End file.
